The Reason
by Poisonous Picasso
Summary: Always in the same order, youngest first, father last. The father needs to see what he really had, instead of turning a blind eye to his family leaving him, dying out and withering away. M FOR GORE! AU


I've done a lot of horrible things in my life.

Does that make me a horrible person? Does that make me a man with not heart, someone who lives only to see others die and suffer in his grasp.

Or does it just make me strong? Maybe, just maybe, this makes me understand that some humans deserve to suffer, deserve to know the pain that I have lived without. Yet, I long to know the love of a younger sibling, the gentle touch of a mother's hand, hear the deep, throaty laugh of a father.

That's why, I kill them.

Always in the same order, youngest first, father last. The father needs to see what he really had, instead of turning a blind eye to his family leaving him, dying out and withering away. He needs to grasp on to what he has-or, had-and hold that memory until the very end.

Tied to a chair, he always is forced to watch his youngest child be gutted, it's intricate intestines unwound and carelessly hung around his neck like thick pink sausages. He gets to stare into my cold, blue eyes, as I remove the top of his wife's head, and carefully remove her brain, setting it on his lap with a cold, uncaring smirk.

Then, slowly, I light them all on fire. Except him, it's always the same routine. I carefully take all of their hands, linking them together intricately, tying their wrists together with a red satin ribbon drenched in gasoline. I start with the mother, lighting her hair on fire, and watching her body char.

I watch with him, staring at the puddles of blood, vomit and life leaking onto the underside of my boots, staring the ruined, distorted face in the eyes, a million times reflected in ruby sapphires. I know I cry, I always do, resting my back against the wall, taking the father's hand, and looking up at him, helpless, hoping he gets my desperate SOS.

_Kill me. _

They always look away, probably terrified of me. Terrified of the cold, softening blue eyes, the trembling smirk. Knowing of what I'm capable of, knowing that I can, and most likely will, kill him without the smallest hint of remorse.

At the end, I always untie him. I always hand him a knife, and lean in close to his ear, my breath tickling the gentle strands of graying hair around it.

"Kill me. I dare you. For your wife, your children. You owe it to them."

They never do, they never catch the hint of desperation in my voice. Their minds are to clouded by the ephemeral torture they've just witnessed. Always, they cry, and always I hug them close.

I know this pain.

And I cry, too.

I cry for the loss of the one I loved, the one who's picture rests in my back pocket, I cry for the lack of a family, the feeling of complete emptiness. I cry at knowing I'm scarred, both physically and mentally, knowing that I have the blood of too many women and children on my hands. I cry because I want to die, and yet, I am afraid to.

When they're done crying, they let go of me. Turning to stare directly in my eyes. A few brave souls whisper their darkest secrets to me, knowing I'll keep them safe, knowing I can't tell a person, or the guilt will override me.

And, then, I ask them their names.

Carve it carefully into their stomach in neat, gorgeous script. Followed by a message, a message that has yet to be returned:

_Come and get me Kira. Mihael Keehl._

I know it's pointless, Kira needs a face and a name to kill me. And, I'm too chicken to give him that. Sure, I seem brave, carving out my full name, and giving it to him just like that. I may act as though I don't know all of the facts, even though I had them down way before N-N-he ever did.

Then, I slit their throats, listening to their last, choking screams, their attempts to take it back. Then I curl up in the corner furthest from charred remains and rivers that turn into lakes of flowing blood. Resting my head on my knees, hidden behind my arms, I sob.

_Is this what you wanted, Near? _It hurts me to even think his name. I look at my gloved hands, the hands that took his fragile hold on life. A moment of rage, a strategically placed shard of glass, a white neck quickly turning red, those are the only memories I have of his death.

Finally at the end of all of this, I break down, heart-wrenching, sobs break through me. My body contorts and shakes violently, painfully. I scream, sob, and bash my head, fists, legs, feet against any hard surface. Taking a knife to my neck, but always afraid, I don't know what waits for me.

Will it be Near, L, Matt, the devil?

Or will I just...end.

That's the thought that scares me the most.

Washing my face, and cleaning my mess, I leave the charred remains and the father in their rooms, laid gently on their beds.

Leaving the house, and hopping on my motorcycle. And always, he's there.

The little albino boy with slate grey eyes and an eternally bleeding neck.

Watching me with that all-knowing, smart-assed smirk.

Waiting, just like me...

...for the moment I finally cave.

**The Reason**

**7/16/2010**

**Picasso **


End file.
